


Going Out In Style

by Ellerigby13



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: DrugDealer!Montparnasse, Eventual Sex, F/M, Gen, Grantaire Writing Fortunes, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Minor Violence, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-23 00:20:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellerigby13/pseuds/Ellerigby13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Writing sarcastic fortunes for sarcastic fortune cookies was not Grantaire's first choice when it came to careers, but he was good at it so it paid the bills.  While he didn't necessarily believe in political activism, he did believe in free booze, which is how he landed himself at Les Amis meetings with the most hopelessly gorgeous activist he'd ever laid eyes on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One-R

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! This is my first Les Miserables fic, set in a modern AU. Long story short, Enjolras and Grantaire are just two people who happen to cross paths in New York and fall in love at some point? Maybe? I intend to add some subplots with other character relationships, including Éponine/Courfeyrac (which is a stretch because I've grown to love Courfeyrac/Jean Prouvaire but we'll make it work), Marius/Cosette, and Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta.  
> I hope you enjoy it, and thanks for checking it out!

Chapter One-R

Grantaire was beginning to think that getting rip-roaring drunk on a Sunday night had not been a good idea. He began to think it fervently as the lines on the desktop began to blur, and the letters on the keyboard started to dance. The thought pounded against his temples as he fled from his cubicle to the office bathroom to empty his guts into the first stall toilet.

Grantaire had never had such a hangover, and it had never so interfered with his work until today.

For the record, the business was not fortune cookies. It was misfortune cookies. A lot like regular fortune cookies, except that the little crinkled up pieces of paper inside had negative messages inside, instead of the really vague, half-assed crap that came from the cookies at your local Panda Express.

And, when you thought about it, Grantaire really fit the bill as a misfortune writer. Cynical but educated, clever but self-righteous. He came up with the ones like "YOUR GIRLFRIEND BANGED THE UGLY GUY DOWNSTAIRS. AND YOUR LUCKY NUMBERS ARE 7 12 3 42 55." But the problem with the misfortune industry was that everybody hated each other in the office. They were all so fabulously snarky and fueled by inferiority complexes that they backstabbed, betrayed, and kissed ass to the boss till kingdom came.

So it was no sympathy that came to Grantaire when he finally pulled himself out of the toilet bowl, but the shutter noise coming out of his douchey coworker's iPhone 5.

"Boss is gonna love this, R," the guy chuckled, pocketing his phone once more. "Thanks for the photo op."

"Go fuck yourself," Grantaire groaned, pushing himself up off the toilet seat and onto his feet. He was probably more offended by the guy's unwelcome use of his favorite nickname than anything else. This was one of those suit-and-tie-yes-boss-what-can-I-get-you gentlemen by day, listens-to-Mac-Miller-and-thinks-he-can-rap by night kind of guys. A trust fund kid in an in-between job that would hold out until his father would get him a bigger gig. Who only paid for half his rent and a quarter of his phone bill. The exact kind of guy R couldn't stand.

"See ya around."

After some time Grantaire made his way back to his desk, and went back about adding his sarcastic remarks to the good workingman's pretend-Chinese cookie–fun fact, fortune cookies were invented in San Francisco, not Asia. Anyway, it was in that manner that he went about his way this fine Monday morning, then afternoon, when he made his usual rounds about the bar scene in order to find himself in the same state of drunken misery he'd enforced yesterday. However, today he also found himself in the supportive hands of his favorite bartender, a thoughtful and bespectacled college grad by the name of Combeferre. The kid had majored in philosophy, which explained the need for a bartending job. But he was a good guy. Especially good when Grantaire had caught the hiccups and a case of belligerence at about four in the morning at Combeferre's bar.

"Just one more," R demanded, banging his fist against the counter. Combeferre plucked the shot glass out of his other hand.

"I think you should probably slow down. And probably call a cab." If Grantaire hadn't been in the state he was, he'd probably note the discomfort and agitation that Combeferre seemed to be in. You see, it wasn't that he disliked R, not at all. The fellow could be quite amusing, before he reached level six of smashed every night. It was just that Combeferre was closing down the bar early tonight for a meeting and, in R's state of intoxication, chances were he'd be disruptive.

"I'm fine," he insisted, turning around to face the turntables, whose faded tunes had started on the less recognizable stuff. "Is that the Bloody Beetroots? Oh, I love them! Geniuses, you know, and, did you know–they got Paul McCartney to work with them on a track? What's it called...urm..."

"Out of Sight," came an unfamiliar voice from near the door, and when the room spun around to meet Grantaire's line of vision, he was introduced to sharp angles and a shag of untameable blondish hair, a jawline set with a fierce passion that he had never personally known. The man in red stalked toward them, his lips curling into something of a smirk as he turned to address Combeferre. "Have you recruited a nice new fellow to our cause, Monsieur Philosophe?"

Combeferre didn't respond, but sighed heavily, sending the man in red a glance that told him not to pursue the matter further. And he didn't, but reached over the counter to pour himself a glass of water. Curious, R thought, for a man to come to a bar and drink only water. To each his own, he supposed.

After the man in red, more began to file into the bar, most of them, R realized, skinny white graduates who ought to have been tattooed "HIPSTER" the moment they left senior year at their cute little liberal arts colleges. In observing them greet each other, he'd note that one had been a pre-med student, and that he was going to go to grad school as soon as his protests against Wall Street would fade. Jolly? Right, was he the one? He had some kind of disease that made him think he was diseased. Which made very little goddamn sense to R, but perhaps that was beside the point. 

The next notable one was that fucker with a guitar. Jay-hawn. Or something pretentiously French like that. He was definitely a hipster. Carrying around a scribbled-up journal with poetry that he "preferred" to keep to himself and little flowers pressed into some of the pages. God. Probably the most annoying thing about him was how happy he always seemed to be. And the rest of them just entertained it, like the kid was really all that great. He was still in school, an English major with specific focus in Romantic literature. Don't forget that, everyone, R taunted to himself.

The third and final one that R bothered himself into paying any attention to tonight was the brown-haired guy with the further-impossible name. Courf...Courfeerock? Jesus. A band of French-American guys with these impossible-to-pronounce names all meeting in a bar to discuss the injustices of the modern American government and figure out when they'd start pointless riots in the middle of New York and be teargassed beyond recognition. Anyway, Courfey was the hippie of the hipsters, even more so than Jay-juan with his flowery shit and his poetry. Courfey believed in love and in free love especially. That was secret code for "manwhore" but who was R to judge?

"Good to see you all again so soon," said the man in red, in order to begin whatever meeting this lot of rabble had to offer. From R's gatherings, it was a group of indebted students who wanted to scream and shout about the gross insanity the school system was putting them through when it came to loans and tuition and the possibilities of job opportunities after getting their degrees. A load of waffle, if you asked him. "As you all know..." and during this pause, the man in red took an unnecessary moment to glare at Grantaire "...my name is Enjolras. I attended New York University for six years for a Master's degree in Politics with special focus in Political Theory. And as you all know, I have major problems with the things going on in this country's government. Which is why, as someone with my Master's in Politics, I am currently unemployed."

R snorted at this, which brought the man in red's laser vision back to him (fuck trying to say the name, Courfeyrac looked easy compared to this).

"I'm sorry, did you have something to contribute...?" He trailed off, as if asking for R's name in turn.

"Grantaire. My name is Grantaire," R slurred, pushing himself off the barstool. "And I just wanted to give you a little input about how your superior attitude is what keeps you from getting any jobs in this economy." He was ready now for his presentation, to show these idealistic pricks the error of their ways. "Okay, Captain Hair Conditioner–" He patted Enjolras' shoulder "–your problem is that you talk all this big talk and all this shit about the government and about capitalism and shit like that but, big shocker, you continue to play by their rules. You make it seem like it's a big crime to advertise the way they are, which it is, but you still go out and buy their shit. And the reason nobody wants to take you seriously is that you're criticizing the stuff you live on. Bitin' the hand you eat out of, as they say."

Blondjolras looked skeptically from Grantaire, to Combeferre, then back again, his eyes narrowing.

"I don't know about you, Mr. Grantaire, but we don't actually all play by the rules laid out for us. And expressing our discontent with our treatment after we've all been educated by the way that the tax system, the advertising game, the game of loans, that's not ignorance. What's ignorant is glaring a huge problem in the face and choosing to do nothing about it. We're the ones who are going to change this country. And we're going to start by changing the people."

While the man in red's way of thinking was still flawed, R thought, the way that his eyes sparked when he talked about something that passionately had a sort of flare to it. It was clever...attractive even. Something to be admired.

"So enlighten me," Grantaire replied after a moment, pressing his fingers together in the prayer alignment. "How do you plan to change the people?"

It was at this point that Enjolras grew excited, gaining speed as he paced in front of his group, half-lecturing the lot of them about the ways that the upper classes had slung a propaganda at the lower and middle classes, and how its message of their inferiority seeped into each of their brains. And how they could be won back with knowledge, and Combeferre seemed very, very pleased with this idea. There were a few intervals in which Enjolras allowed the rest of the rabble to discuss their ideas as well, before he tied them back in with what he thought would work and how they would set their plans in motion, how they'd rally the people and teach them to fend for themselves until "the system" (he kept calling it that, did he really have to play by the clichés of the modern century?) started to take its people seriously and sat down to serve the people, instead of stepping on them. It was the usual entitled speech that Grantaire had heard a million times, but the thing was, Enjolras had a sort of charisma about him that almost made R believe him this time. Almost.

"Unless anyone else has any business they'd like to bring up, I'd say this meeting's done," Enjolras finally declared, hopping off his metaphorical soapbox. Without another word and without another glance at Grantaire, he picked his bag up off one of the nearby tables, slung it over his shoulder, and promptly marched out of the bar. The rest of them lingered, and this, perhaps, was the most important piece of information R had picked up that night, perhaps the most important piece of information he'd pick up this whole week, something that he would have to utilize within the next few months.

Everyone at the meeting got free drinks.


	2. Chapter Two-E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras and Éponine are roommates in a shabby little apartment in NYC (him by choice and her by necessity), a very important Senator dies, and Gavroche gets himself into something major with Montparnasse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading another chapter, if you've read the first already. Hopefully this won't disappoint. Please leave a comment if you enjoyed/have constructive criticism/just plain have something to say. Thanks!

Chapter Two-E

 

Enjolras had to believe that today's meeting had gone pretty well considering the disrespect he had been receiving from the random drunk guy left over from the bar.  Sometimes he neglected to remember that the Les Amis guys weren't the sole customers at Cafe Musain, but the whole fatigue thing combined with overthrowing the corrupted government...it clouded your vision at times.  But otherwise it had been productive.  He'd brought up Bahorel's idea of passing out fliers, and noted that it would likely be a very useful and convenient way of getting ideas out.  They'd all been to school, they knew what it was like to have little notes plastered over their doors by RAs and they knew that they'd gone to at least 70% of those events.  It was a good idea.  Bahorel had gotten it right.  So they'd do that, to publicize their next protest.  Maybe more people would come this time.

 

"How was the meeting?" his roommate Éponine asked from behind her newspaper, legs crossed as she lounged on the couch at five thirty in the morning smoking a cigarette.

 

"Different," was the only thing he could come up with, shaking his head as he made his way to the Coffeemate to fix himself up a brew.  "There was a drunk left over at Combeferre's bar so he was challenging just about every idea the rest of us had.  And lover boy next door failed to show up this time."  Éponine blushed an ugly purplish color at this, redirecting her eyes back to the newspaper.  "What?"

 

"Marius has found himself someone new to be interested in.  A girl I used to be in school with, my parents took her in for a little while before her mother died.  He's been a little preoccupied with her since they met."  It was something in the way that her lips curled at their ends when she said this, something in the way that her smile was not quite a smile, and the glint in her eyes was not quite excitement.  Bitterness?  He'd not known 'Ponine to be a very bitter girl, rather like a lost puppy who'd latched onto a new owner the way that she trailed behind Pontmercy, big brown eyes flashing with adoration at him.  Adoration that the great fool had never noticed.  Not from an apartment away.

 

"What's her name?" Enjolras decided to ask, busying himself with pouring coffee into their individual mugs.  He took his black, and she preferred it with hazelnut creamer, but no sugar.

 

"Cosette.  Cosette Fauchelevent is what she goes by now.  God knows what she used to go by, her mother was always so ill even her daughter couldn't pry a last name off those lips, but she was Fauchelevent when that old man came and got her.  God."  She looked up to the ceiling, the ghost of a smirk leaving her lips at last.  "I should have known.  He never noticed me anyway."  E carried her coffee over to her, sitting beside her and wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

 

"I'm sorry, 'Ponine.  He's not worth your time."  His voice came out low, soothing.  It took a long time to gain the respect required for Enjolras to show sympathy for you, but if he had a weak spot, it was for Éponine.  It was just that she had been through so much.  Going broke as a kid with deadbeat parents, then getting kicked out of the house when she chose to do what was right as opposed to what was expected, then having her heart broken by someone who didn't deserve that power over her.  She was the kind of person who, despite being worth fighting for, would fight to the death for herself.  And she was the kind of person that their cause would fight for too.

 

"It's fine."  She shrugged, taking a sip of the coffee he'd prepared.  "There's more pressing matters, though.  Have you seen this?"  She held up the newspaper.  The front page bore a picture of Senator Lamarque, one of the most influential Congressmen in the Senate and one of the biggest sympathizers for E's cause, and underneath the picture, in big block letters, the announcement of his death after a long, heavy battle with an unspecified illness.  Enjolras snatched the paper from her, scanning the article beneath for details.

 

"This is today's paper?"  Éponine nodded solemnly, drinking her coffee.  "Shit...well, _shit_..."  For perhaps the first time she'd seen it, Enjolras was speechless.  He was so taken aback that a lump had formed in his throat that he was unable to choke down.  This would set back their movement considerably, unless...  "What if we make him out to be a martyr?  You know, imply that his death was somehow caused by the stress of his concern for the lower classes, and remind the public of his cause–"

 

"Enjolras," 'Ponine chided, her eyes narrowing.  "Do you have any idea how insensitive you sound?  A man has _died_.  His death is not your toy to manipulate to your convenience.  Have some respect."  E rubbed his eyes, shaking his head.

 

"I'm sorry.  You know I didn't mean anything by it.  Maybe I should just go to sleep."

 

"That might be the finest idea you've had all day, Monsieur Enjolras."  With that, she dumped the remains of his coffee in her mug and stirred, nodding him toward the door to his room.  E stood up, bending to give her a chaste kiss on the forehead, and adjourned to his bedroom.  He did not sleep, however, because the thoughts of an impending revolution had swallowed his mind, and at six o'clock in the morning he lay awake on his pillow, staring at the ample cracks in the ceiling and contemplating the next step for the cause.  The rest of Les Amis would have heard the news by now, through their TV screens or iPhones or Yahoo! windows, and it was doubtless that they'd be almost as occupied with these thoughts as he was.  E knew that most of his company were not as committed as he was to the cause, but, as the future Dr. Combeferre had suggested, education would change things.

 

People would catch on.  They had to.

 

Redirecting his thoughts, so that the admitted obsession with revolution would not make him crazy, E turned things to Marius Pontmercy, the fellow next door whose freckles and good looks had caught 'Ponine's eye when he'd first moved in.  Éponine had invited him over for coffee more than a few times, and they'd spent a good deal of time together walking around the city.  E was surprised that she hadn't done anything yet to pursue this schoolgirl crush of sorts, seeing as Éponine had a fiery personality and a fierce passion within her that was a force not to be challenged.  In most cases, she took what she wanted and made things happen for herself.  But since Pontmercy had moved in she had taken on a sort of damsel in distress mentality.  As if he would be her knight in shining armor.

 

It was ridiculous, E thought.  Especially since she was laying her affections in someone as oblivious and naïve as him.  Pontmercy had attended a few of the Les Amis de l'ABC meetings, and thus far he had had not much productive things to their cause to say.  He remained painfully ignorant of many of the points of view Enjolras and the rest of the company had, but his interest and loquacious nature had caught the eye of the majority of the Les Amis.  Pontmercy could prove useful, in time.

 

But he'd also have to make things proper with Éponine.  There was no way that he didn't see her infatuation with him.  Everyone else did.  She'd made a point of coming to the meetings every time he was there, and even Jean Prouvaire, the youngest and most innocent of the lot of them was awfully aware of the fact that every time he challenged E's ideas, a light would flare in her eyes and she'd hang off every word like he were the messiah and he'd chosen her as his little porcelain doll.  Except he hadn't.  And now he wouldn't, because Cosette Fauchelevent had beaten Éponine to the punch.  Another girl letting herself be taken by the hands of a man who didn't know any better.  Something else the cause would help.  Girls knowing their worth, becoming women in their own rights.

 

"Christ," he muttered, rolling onto his side.  It was a wonder these constant thoughts didn't drive him mad.

 

"IF YOU'RE NOT ASLEEP IN THE NEXT TEN MINUTES, ENJOLRAS, I'M GOING TO COME IN THERE AND KNOCK YOU OUT."

 

"I'm sorry!" he shouted back, flopping onto his stomach.  How the hell did she always know?

 

Falling asleep was always a struggle but when Enjolras finally let go, right around seven o'clock that morning, the weight in his stomach concerning Senator Lamarque had all but dissolved, and he would dream the day away in revolution.

 

________________

 

"Enjolras.  _Enjolras_."  A sudden weight in his midsection had appeared within the last few moments, bringing his dream of a leggy faceless woman wrapped in an American flag to a stuttering halt.  His eyes creaked open to the cascading brown tresses of 'Ponine's hair, and her wide, earnest brown eyes.  "Enjolras, you need to get up.  You need to get up and get out of bed _now_."  She slid off him, sitting in the empty space on the other side of the bed.  E sat up, shaking himself awake.

 

"What's wrong, Éponine?"

 

"I need your help with Gavroche," she said tearfully, and it was then that E knew things were serious.  "I know he's been hanging around with Montparnasse and I'm pretty sure my dad's put them up to something and–and–"  At this point, the girl stronger than anyone E had ever seen broke down in tears, unable to continue any further.  So he took her by the wrists, attempting to steady her shaking body, and shushed her as gently as he could.

 

"Éponine, Éponine, hush...it's going to be alright.  Do you know where Gavroche is?  Has he texted you?"  She nodded at this, glancing over at her cheap little cell phone lying on the end table.  E picked it up, struggling to focus on the little block letters.  FOURTH AND REDD BY GAS STATION.  NEED YOU ASAP.  It was quite unlike most texts he'd snuck a peek at over Éponine's shoulder, in which Gavroche would leave some cheeky remark then teasingly reassure her of his safety.  This was serious.  "Have you told anyone else yet?"

 

"No.  I think he texted Courfeyrac too, but...Enjolras, please, I need your help."  He nodded, helping her to her feet and snatching two of his ratty jackets out of the closet.  Before long, they'd made their way down four flights of stairs and were running through the streets, dodging angry bicyclists and blasé hipsters and old white men carrying cold cups of coffee until they reached a part of the city darker than the slum they'd chosen to live in.  

 

Seventh, Sixth, Fifth...they were getting closer.  Boys near Gavroche's age fleeing from some unknown force, whimpers from quiet corners, then, inexplicably, one shot fired in the fading daylight.

 

" _No_!" 'Ponine screamed, breaking away from Enjolras and sprinting into the thick of it, and, when the dust had cleared and the chaotic noise fell with it, she reached him, not Gavroche but a taller, developed figure, draped in dark, drab garments.  The boy was kneeling next to it, his face dripping with tears and his throat emitting an animal-like child sound, between weeping and bellowing.  "Gavroche, Gavroche."

 

"They've shot 'im!" the boy cried out, his body crumbling over the one in the street.  "They've shot Montparnasse!"

 

"Shh, shh," Éponine begged, clutching Gavroche to her chest and looking up to Enjolras.  "Enjolras, call an ambulance, please.  _Please._ "

 

"Yeah...yeah," E breathed, dialing frantically and pacing as he brought the phone to his ear.  He ran a hand up his forehead, waiting for the operator to respond.  Courfeyrac rounded the corner, and, with Éponine's permission, scooped Gavroche up into his arms and backed away.  In a blur the ambulance arrived, loading Montparnasse into the back.  Because none of them were related, they could not join him on the way to the hospital, but Combeferre had a car and he was on his way.

 

The silence of the waiting room brought Enjolras to a decision.

 

Life, he thought, in its fragility, could not be wasted.  Les Amis de l'ABC would have to make their stand soon.  As soon as possible.  And, even if their lives were forgotten, their cause had to go on.  They would fight, to the death and beyond if that was what it took.

 


	3. Chapter Three-R/É

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grantaire asks Combeferre something peculiar, Éponine and Gavroche watch Eminem in the hospital, Courfeyrac falls asleep everywhere, and Enjolras is nowhere to be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're new, welcome, and if you've been following for a little while, welcome back! This chapter is a little bit of a filler for the Enjolras/Grantaire storyline, but it's sort of an intro/step towards Courfeyrac/Éponine. If I'm getting OOC at all, please let me know because I've been reading a lot of fanfic on here that shocks me a little with how OOC it is. I'm not saying that's bad, I just wanted to keep the characters as true to themselves as I can, given a modern AU. Thanks for letting me ramble, and I hope you really enjoy this chapter :)

Chapter Three-R/É

 

If there were anything Grantaire wanted to be woken up to on a too-early Wednesday morning, it would not be the sound of an excessively loud news reporter with a disgustingly fake Brooklyn accent announcing the death of a well-meaning but blundering Senator that R had heard so much about before.  After a musical montage that lasted far too long for R's taste, the reporter added in ever so graciously a snippet concerning another shooting on the corner of Fourth St. and Redd Ave.  It was some dealer who'd been charging too much, by the name of Lukas Montparnasse.  R wouldn't have paid any more attention than he usually did, except for a photo of the scene of the crime, as they say, taken from what was likely a really crappy cell phone.

 

There was the "victim," lying in a pool of his own blood on the sidewalk, what appeared to be a young boy and a girl in her late teens to early twenties kneeling beside him.  But what really caught R's eye was the splash of mad blond hair frizzed atop a lean, tall-enough-to-be-respectable-but-not-very-intimidating figure.  Wearing a red jacket.

 

"Fuck," R muttered, focused on the tiny TV in his kitchen suddenly.  "Fuckfuckfuck..."

 

And instead of going to work that day, he called in sick to a boss who'd already seen pictures of him hunched over a toilet and told him, with a chuckle, that he'd be paid for today even if he went out and pissed on the rest of the town, because he was the best writer in the damn business and jazz like that.  And he went to the bar from two nights before and banged on the door until someone came out, but it wasn't Combeferre.

 

"Sorry, but we're closed till this afternoon," a pretty, small girl with sunkissed hair announced, eyeing him in a lazily sexy manner.  Her nametag read MUSICHETTA in big gold letters.  Before she could close the door, R jammed himself in the space she'd opened, trying his best to look like he wasn't begging.

 

"I'm sorry, I was just wondering, um, is Combeferre in today?"  She looked at him, then at something over her shoulder, and sighed, nodding slowly as she opened the door.

 

"Grantaire?  Is everything alright?" asked the bartender calmly, appearing from behind a barstool in his usual garb except for the extra-concerned expression on his face.

 

"I was just wondering...I saw that friend of yours on the news today, and I just wanted to see if, uh, well, if everything was gonna...turn out okay, I guess."  The words felt very foreign to him.  He hadn't had much of a family or friends for a long time, so there were very few people he ever worried about, save himself.  But something about the way that blond boy's eyes blazed when he talked about saving people...he supposed that gave him reason enough to worry about a random activist he had met only once before.

 

"Yeah.  Our, er, friend of a friend is in ICU for the whole shooting thing, but Enjolras is fine.  How about you?"

 

"Me?  I'm fine," he answered automatically.  Combeferre raised an eyebrow, but Grantaire chose to ignore this meaningless gesture.  "I mean, my boss likes me and I'm getting paid for my day off today, so I have nothing to worry about in that sense."

 

"What _do_ you have to worry about, then?  Friends?  Family?  Career stuff, not just the job you're in?"  It was funny, R thought, that Combeferre was so earnestly unapologetic about things like this.  Most people would say sorry for prying or something like that, but this bartender didn't seem to care.  Must be the whole philosophy thing.

 

"Well, I haven't got much family or friends to worry about, so no.  And when it comes to a career...well, I'm living the dream, aren't I?  Writing fortune cookies for assholes, it's...my calling, obviously."  The three-quarter smirk that came with his sarcasm faded quickly, and R brushed a hand through his hair, looking down at the dust-bitten floor.  "But, um...yeah, just...give your friend of a friend my best wishes and–"

 

"Grantaire," said Combeferre seriously, but he couldn't quite keep himself from smiling sympathetically.  "Don't worry about it.  I'll tell you what, come to the next Amis meeting.  Same time, same place next Monday night.  All the same people are gonna be there, and I'm pretty sure Éponine and Gavroche will come too."

 

"That's the girl and the kid, yeah?"  Combeferre nodded.  "Okay...and, um...sorry if I pissed off your friend.  You know, the blond guy who really loves the sound of his own voice and thinking he can make a difference on the lower-middle classes.  That...Enjolras.  Right?"  Something in his ramble had caused Combeferre to smile, a gleam in his eyes posing something of a question that R had little to no interest in answering.

 

"Yeah.  I'll let him know.  Thanks, man.  See you next time, Grantaire."  At that, R patted the counter awkwardly and showed himself the way out, taking the trek back to his apartment.  God.  What the hell was wrong with him?  He'd irritated the living shit out of this Enjolras guy just two nights before, and now he was playing the concerned card to the guy's friend.  There was no _way_ Combeferre hadn't been suspicious about it all, especially the weird way R had asked.  Then again, it wasn't like Grantaire had anything to hide.  His way of life was pretty crystal clear.  Work all day, drink all night...Jesus, that was actually depressing.

 

________________

 

Éponine awoke to the sound of beeping monitors, heavy breathing, and a head of very frizzy hair pressed against her shoulder.  Had it not been for the line of drool trailing from Courfeyrac's mouth, she would have let him sleep longer.  However, due to her unwilling-to-deal-with-your-bullshit attitude at the moment, she shook him off her, and, when his head lolled forward and he snapped awake, making a few disgruntled noises as he shifted himself off her.

 

"What's going on?" he grumbled, rubbing his eyes wearily.

 

"You really need to get some more sleep, because it seems like every time we hang out, you _always_ pass out on me.  Figuratively and physically."  She turned to the still-unconscious body of her old "family friend," Montparnasse, whose single gunshot wound had rendered him in critical condition only a few hours ago.  He had made his way to stable, but there was no sign of any of their old "friends" to visit, save her and Gavroche.  He'd received a thorough chewing-out for associating with drug dealers like 'Parnasse, but the main concern was that he was okay.  And that, in spite of the reputation it might give them, they were there for someone who needed them.

 

"I sleep fine," Courfeyrac insisted, shifting himself into an upright position but slinging his arm over the back of his next-door neighbor's chair.  "You just bore me to death, you see."  This statement earned him a hard punch to the shoulder, which caused him to remove the arm again.  "Jesus.  You're so hostile.  Where's your brother, Combeferre, and our illustrious leader?"

 

"Brother is getting something from the vending machine, Combeferre got called in to work, and our illustrious leader felt it wouldn't be in his place to stick around for someone he doesn't know to wake up, unlike the idiot who decided that, rather than try to get something out of me how I'm friends with Montparnasse, he'd fall asleep draped across me."

 

"Now, now," Courfeyrac teased, this time wrapping his arm full around her shoulders.  "Let's not exaggerate here.  My head was only on your shoulder.  I was not _draped_ anywhere."

 

"How was Marius' date?" she asked abruptly, tapping her feet together nervously.  At this his face almost fell, but if it did, she didn't notice.  When he saw that she would not look him in the eye, Courfeyrac's expression turned stony.

 

"He said it was great.  That he had a lot of fun and they have a lot in common and he'll be seeing her again soon.  In fact, I think she's coming over to our apartment later tonight for coffee.  Speaking of, is it okay if I stay with you tonight?"  Éponine sighed in response.

 

"You wouldn't want to stay over with me tonight.  My room is shares a wall with his, and if anything happens, it's going to keep you up and then you're going to fall asleep on me in public _again_."  He grinned this time, right as she looked up.

 

"I never said I wanted to sleep in the same _room_ with you, but if you _insist_ –ouch!  Jesus, woman!"

 

"Don't act coy, Courfeyrac.  I know how you are with helpless girls like me, you pretend to love us then toss us to the side like a rag doll."  If he hadn't thought otherwise, perhaps he'd sensed a little tension/bitterness in her voice.

 

"Oh, to hell with that," he dismissed, playfully blowing her bangs up out of her face.  "If there's anything I know about you, 'Ponine, it's that you're anything but another helpless girl."  And if she hadn't thought otherwise, perhaps she'd sensed the tone of endearment he'd used for her, and the slight pining that was rising in his chest at this moment, the magnetic pull he felt between their torsos, and the way that her lips seemed to beckon his, begging to be swollen with the tenderest kisses she would receive in her life, and his begging hers never to speak his roommate's name again.

 

But his desires were forgotten when the small blond boy entered the room with a mouthful of salt and vinegar chips he'd actually bought out of the machine, and placed himself very conveniently at the end of the bed where his friend lay, staring intently between his older sister and the man who lived next door to her.

 

"Am I interrupting a moment?  Because if I am, I hope you don't plan on it coming back, 'cause I'm not leaving."  He punctuated his statement by munching loudly, sea-colored eyes flickering between them.  Éponine huffed in disbelief.  A moment?  Between her and Courfeyrac?  Impossible, she thought, because a good-looking, always-knows-what-to-say-to-make-you-feel-special guy like Courfeyrac was miles out of her league, even beyond her beloved/unattainable Marius Pontmercy.  And if there had been a moment between them, it certainly wouldn't have taken place in front of Montparnasse.  (She had a little bit of a history with him, you see, because he was in cahoots with her father, and when she'd shown interest in him growing up, her dad totally approved.  Another crime family, what more could he ask for?  But when he kicked her out of the house and Enjolras took her in, Montparnasse saw it only one way, and he dumped her on her ass, not before getting a little violent.  In all honesty, she wasn't completely sure why she had come to his aid, but it was probably mostly because of Gavroche.  Because even if she completely disapproved of his association with scum like him, she was actually one of those people who elected to give a shit about others.)

 

"You're not interrupting anything," said Courfeyrac quickly, taking his arm back one more agonizing time, what felt like for good.  "But I don't get why you even like those chips.  Of all the flavors of chips, salt and vinegar is the absolute worst!"  Gavroche pulled his bag to his chest, clearly offended.  Meanwhile, Éponine chuckled, folding her arms.  He clearly had no idea what he'd just done.

 

"Salt and vinegar chips are the _best_ chips in the business.  Because, as chips are supposed to be salty, they up the ante.  These chips are the proclaimed god of chips.  They take salty to another level.  They boost your sodium intake per day by about five hundred calories.  Meaning you'd have to eat another Big Mac or so in order to compensate for the percentage of sodium you'd already consumed."

 

"Doesn't that sound like overkill to you?"  He was wearing a disgusted face, lips curling at the ends.

 

"Go big or go home," was Gavroche's only reply, as he popped another chip into his mouth and proceeded to ignore his friend, reaching over to turn the TV on.

 

While 'Ponine and Gavroche watched _8 Mile_ together on HBO at a volume that was probably inappropriate for a hospital, Courfeyrac couldn't get the thought of that strange feeling in his chest out of his head.  He'd be honest; this wasn't some kind of lingering love that he'd always harbored for the girl who clearly preferred his roommate.  But, even upon meeting her, he'd had to admit that she was really cute.  The super-slim waist was a little bit of a shocker, because she had a very well-rounded torso (if you knew what he meant), and he didn't usually go for brunettes or girls with round faces, but when he'd first fallen asleep on her, at a party a few weeks after they'd first met, the way he woke up with his arms around her waist and her back pressed against his chest felt...different.  This was a girl he hadn't slept with, who, when he'd flirted in his extra-blatant, semi-raunchy signature way, turned him on his heel and pushed him away.  Because she was already in love with a guy she met in college, a guy who had absolutely no eyes for her, and a guy who was occupying the same apartment as him.

 

But this presented to Courfeyrac a challenge.  He wasn't the sit-down-and-go-on-a-date-with-a-girl-and-expect-no-more-than-a-first-kiss-at-the-door kind of guy.  But that was what he felt himself wanting to do with her.  Of course, she'd have none of it.  But that didn't mean he couldn't try.

 

And try he would.


	4. Chapter Four-E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras naps on his laptop, Courfeyrac and Gavroche stay over, and nobody wants to deal with matters of the heart.

Chapter Four-E

 

_Grantaire asked about you._

 

Grantaire?  As in the drunk from the meeting the other night?

 

_Yes.  He wanted to know if you were okay.  Didn't seem quite as concerned about M, E, or G._

 

Combeferre, why on Earth would a random drunk from your bar want to know if I was alright when there's been a shooting?

 

_I think you can put the pieces together._

 

Putting pieces together was not what Enjolras wanted to do that afternoon.  In fact, he was in the process of putting together the fliers that Bahorel had suggested, of all people, in order to get the word around about the protest the day after Lamarque's funeral down by the university.  So the meddlings of some unambitious drunkard were understandably _not_ placed at the forefront of his mind, rather the selection of colors he'd print the fliers in, a decision he would have to make based on costs and practicality.  He wanted to print them in a color that people would notice, but not something that would rip a solid chunk out of his wallet.  And he figured that he should probably print them in multiple colors, as to add the concept of variety, planting in the public the idea that their cause was flexible.

 

_I hear Jerusalem bells a-ringing,_

_Roman Cavalry choirs are singing,_

_Be my mirror, my sword, and shield,_

_My missionaries in a foreign field–_

 

"What?" he snapped into the phone, not bothering to look at the caller ID.

 

"Don't get your knickers in a twist," Éponine snapped back, muffled by distance.  "I was just giving you the heads-up that Courfeyrac is staying with us tonight.  _Marius_ is presumably sexiling him.  So if it's not a big deal that he stays in my room and I stay on the couch tonight, I just thought I would keep you updated.  And if you're going to be up all night for the cause, let me know so I can buy you some un-shitty earphones.  Yours leak all the damn time.  And then I have to wear mine."

 

"Yes, yes, that's fine, he can stay," Enjolras grunted, leaning his forehead against his palm.  His eyes darted to the time on the computer, four forty-five in the afternoon.  "Is Gavroche coming too?"

 

"Yeah.  He's bringing an air mattress he stole from my parents.  I'm not gonna lie to you, E, our apartment is gonna be a bit of a zoo the next few days.  I got a call from Azelma that she wants to come up and visit Montparnasse tomorrow too, so once Courfeyrac leaves my room, I'll let the two of them stay in my bed and I'll take the couch."

 

" _We'll_ take the couch!" called a very familiar voice in the background, followed by a thump.

 

"That's fine," Enjolras sighed exasperatedly.  "Keep me updated, alright?  And don't worry about Marius.  He might pull his abnormally large head out of his ass sometime soon."  He paused for a moment, wondering if he should tell her.  "Er, Combeferre texted me that a drunk from the bar the other night has been asking about me."  It came out awkward, stiff.  Nothing that 'Ponine hadn't expected.  She paused as well.

 

"Well...that's definitely interesting.  We'll have to discuss that when we get in, once I put these two to bed once and for all.  That is, if you're not up all night ignoring me for your revolution."

 

"I don't _ignore_ you.  I just get preoccupied, you know that."

 

"Right.  Preoccupied."  He rolled his eyes, shaking his head at her even though she couldn't see him.

 

"I'll see you tonight, Éponine.  Get a good cab, you hear me?  And make sure Courfeyrac pays."

 

"Whatever.  I hope you're just saying that because I'm poor, not because the two of you are conspiring misogyny behind my back.  See you, E."

 

With a click of his phone, all traces of Éponine, Courfeyrac, Gavroche, Montparnasse, the old drunk Grantaire had left his mind.  And he worked diligently on the fliers until he was face-down in his work, the forgotten melodies of The Clash blasting out of the earphones Éponine so devoutly despised.  By the time he woke up, there were two slices of cheese pizza left in the box on the counter for him, a piece of binder paper stuck to his face, a dirty-haired boy contently asleep in his living room on an air mattress on the floor, and his roommate passed out on the couch with a frown on her face and her arms folded over her blanket-less body.  He plucked the paper off his cheek, then proceeded to his room to fetch a quilt for Éponine, when Courfeyrac, wearing much less clothing than Enjolras was comfortable with, stalked out of her room, rubbing his eyes groggily.

 

"Christ!" gasped Enjolras, clutching his chest.  "Courfeyrac, you scared me half to death."

 

"Sorry ‘bout that, E.  I was just gonna check on her, you know, I wanted to make sure she was holding up okay.  Marius had a date tonight and we ran into them going in the apartment."  He shook his head, lips pursed.  "Doesn't look good for 'Ponine."  Enjolras sighed, going into his room to get her a spare blanket.  "Why does she bother with Marius anyway?  She knows how it is, and I'm not saying he's not a good guy, but he has her go on these errands for him and she just follows him around like his own personal little servant.  I mean...I think it's because he's the first guy in her _life_ to actually treat her _decent,_ but I think this is bad for her."

 

"You know I'm not good with emotions, Courfeyrac," said Enjolras flatly, brushing past him as he made his way to the living room to lay the quilt over the girl in question, and as soon as it hit her skin, she seemed to ease up considerably, muscles relaxing.  "I care for Éponine, I truly do, but her personal life is really none of my business."  It was not a whole truth.  Enjolras sort of liked to pry into her personal affairs, it gave him a way to vicariously experience the emotions she experienced, but he also liked to make sure she wasn't driving herself nuts over the Marius situation.  Unfortunately, she always did, and this made him uncomfortable.  Because this was a situation he did not know how to handle.  He did not know how to fix things for her, and if she heard him say that, she would be furious, because there was really nothing to fix about her.  It was just her circumstance that there was a problem with.  But Enjolras knew better.  He knew that it took chemicals to make reactions, just as it took character to create drama.

 

"Then look at it logically," Courfeyrac begged softly, looking down at her as she slept.  "In order to remove this problem from her life and make things easier, what do we do to please as many people as we can?"  It took Enjolras a minute, but he shook his head, looking at the young woman as well.

 

"Either cut Pontmercy out of her life entirely or at least give him a very stern talking-to that will get the point across that he needs to clear the air with her.  That boy is a raging idiot, and the fact that he doesn't get that she's in love with him is an absolute travesty."  His counterpart smiled an odd little smile, and shook his head as well.

 

"You know, E, I think you might be onto something.  Maybe I should talk to Marius."

 

"In most cases that would be advisable, but seeing as you have feelings for her, your bias might throw him off considerably."

 

"Feelings–I don't–Enjolras, you don't know–"

 

"You know, living with Pontmercy might make you look a little less oblivious, but there's a difference between the two of you, you see."  Enjolras straightened up, the regal crown of blond hair sticking out so that it looked like the mane of a lion wrapped around his head.  "He's dreamy, painfully unaware of other people's emotions.  You're nosy, painfully unaware of your own."  This silenced Courfeyrac, and, though there was nothing his words could do to demonstrate the things going through his head, Enjolras judged from the way that his brows tightened together, his posture stiffened considerably, and his knuckles clenched, that he had said something insensitive again.

 

“I appreciate your input, Enjolras, but perhaps it was unnecessary in this context.  Now, I’m going back to bed.  Goodnight.”

 

E watched him leave, disappointed that the words had come out in a way Courfeyrac would feel harmed by them, but he couldn’t help but think that perhaps he would be good for Éponine.  If he would only open his eyes to realizing the kind of feelings he had for her and stop fooling around with the rest of the female rabble he usually attended to, they could really have something special.  But now there was no point left in trying to argue with the Courfeyrac in his head, so he looked down at ‘Ponine again, making sure that her sleep was peaceful, then proceeded back to the kitchen to finish off the pizza that the three of them had left for him.

 

“You’re right, you know.”  Enjolras jumped at the sound of Gavroche’s voice, nearly dropping the first piece on the floor, then leaned against the counter to support himself while he regained his breath.

 

“I’m right?  What am I right about, exactly?”

 

“I see the way he looks at her.  And, don’t get me wrong, Marius is a cool guy and all, but he’s a dipshit.”  Enjolras had to fight the urge to cringe at a twelve-year-old boy saying the word dipshit.  “Like, ‘Ponine’s been after him since she went away to school, and everybody knows how she feels except him.  And everybody knows how Courf feels about her except for _him_.  So I think he’s being pretty stupid, but I think he could really make her happy.  And, I don’t know about you, but I really think my sister deserves to be happy with all the shit Marius has put her through.”

 

“Gavroche, I completely agree with you, but it would make me a whole lot more comfortable if you tried not to swear so much.”  The boy laughed, shaking his head with a thin-lipped smile.

 

“Sorry, E.  But really.  Courf and ‘Ponine would be great together.  Just go a little easier on him next time you tell him that.  He’s…sensitive.  Not as sensitive as Marius, but sensitive.”  E couldn’t help but smile, and sat down next to the air mattress, patting Gavroche appreciatively on the knee.

 

“You’re quite the philosopher for such a raggedy boy.  Go to sleep, Gavroche.  I have a feeling tomorrow will be a long day.”

 

“Alright.  You try to get some sleep, too, Enjolras.  You’re gonna need it.”  Enjolras chuckled, finished his pizza, and shut off his laptop once and for all.  He did need to try to sleep, especially with the protest coming up faster than he’d imagined.  Perhaps all these personal affairs would sort themselves out before then.  It was a lot to hope for, but a big part of it was that he hoped the best for Éponine and her endeavors in love.  Marius would go on to ignore her, but if she and Courfeyrac got it together…well, he would just have to see, he supposed.

 

 _If I cannot have Marius_ , thought Éponine to herself, having been awake for the entire exchange among the three of them, _then I will have no one for now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope y'all liked it :) If you did, or if you didn't, leave me a comment :)  
> Coldplay owns Viva La Vida, no copyright infringement intended.  
> EDIT:  
> Hey guys, sorry about the lack of activity. I've moved back in at school and things are pretty hectic right now. My laptop is broken and should be back in a few days, so I'll be working on the story as soon as I can. Sorry about the inconvenience!


	5. Chapter 5-R

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grantaire attends his second Les Amis meeting and probably signs up for something he's not quite prepared for.

“Musichetta,” was the word slurred from between Grantaire’s whiskey-wet lips when he re-planted himself at the bar Monday night in time for the meeting at the Musain. He took another shot as placed for him by Combeferre’s reluctant but steady hand, and smiled a bright but jaded smile up at the barmaid. “Will you marry me?” The girl took one look at him, tossed her blonde-streaked hair, and grinned mischievously.

“Seeing as you’re a two-bit drunk in a bored-to-death nine-to-five career, I’m going to have to pass on this one.” She paused to clean out his shot glass, with a rag that already looked filthy. “Besides, I’m already taken.” But by the time her finger stopped pointing ambiguously between hypochondriac Joly from last week and a very tall, very bald, very happy-looking black man on the other side of the bar, Grantaire’s line of vision had faltered.

“Wait, which one? You point way too fast, and you’re way too blurry."

“Both,” she said simply, smirking when his jaw about hit the counter. Instead of addressing the questions that so obviously plagued R’s hopelessly un-sober brain, she turned around, served Jehan a Clockwork Tangerine, then turned back, looking slightly more sympathetic. “We’re kind of experimental, you know? Joly and Bossuet are best friends already and, well, adding me into the picture…I think they’re just a little closer now, you know?”

“So you guys all…at the same time?” Grantaire asked, cocking his head to the side. Musichetta nodded briefly. “Huh. Well, that sounds like quite the spectacle.”

“They’re really all quite lovely for each other,” Jehan interjected, glancing over in Grantaire’s direction as he took a sip of his cocktail. It was strange, R thought, that at the last meeting this kid had spoken so strongly and loudly, and now, in a more personal setting, his voice grew soft and…endearing, as weird as it sounded. “I’m Jean Prouvaire, by the way, but everyone calls me Jehan. And, yeah, I was a little surprised by the whole polyamory thing when they first told me about it, but looking at them, it works.” He set down his drink, slipping onto the barstool next to R. “You see, Joly gets awful nervous sometimes, and Bossuet and ‘Chetta are always there to help him out of it. Bossuet, he’s probably the least lucky guy I know. He started losing his hair when he was about twenty, and now he’s twenty-five and he, like, rocks the bald look. But he always keeps his head up. Which is a tall order when you’ve got a delightfully sarcastic bar wench in your life like ‘Chetta.” The smile plastered across Jehan’s face could not get him out of a quick thwapp on the back of the head by Musichetta and her trusty dish rag.

“Keep your ideas about bar wenches to yourself, Prouvaire,” she chided quietly, then continued to attend to the bar with Combeferre, who, for the most part, had been spectacularly quiet tonight.

Grantaire allowed his vision to wander once more, keeping count of those present and those he hadn’t yet met. Joly, Jehan, and Combeferre, all been there the last meeting. Bossuet, Joly’s apparent other half. A slim, ruddy-cheeked guy at the far left table, nimble hands preoccupied with what looked like a fan one of those geishas would use. With him was another guy whose back was to R, but from this angle he could see the cowlick spiked up at the back of the blond’s head, and a set of bandaged-up knuckles. There was one more so far, sitting at a table by himself, ridden with freckles and a dreamy expression, looking a lot like he wasn’t in the mood to be there.

“That’s Marius.” Almost without R noticing, Jehan had been following his gaze and was now chiming in ever-so-helpfully. “He doesn’t come to meetings often, but I think that’s because he’s fairly new and the last time he came to one he and Enjolras got into an argument about Napoleon Bonaparte. I think he’s got a new girlfriend, too, which isn’t so good for a friend of ours, but I’d like to see them both happy.”

“The attack hick over there with the fan guy?”

“That’s Bahorel. He does a lot of underground boxing since he came up from Alabama. He’s the prime example of what people mean when they say ‘you can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy.’ He used to ride bulls. And the guy making the fan is Feuilly. Never get into a history debate with him. He knows more about Europe than most Europeans. Especially Poland.”

“What the fuck is in Poland? And who’s still missing? I know there’s some still missing.” Jehan spared him a chuckle before gazing at the door, which still wasn’t budging.

“Enjolras and Courfeyrac are the most obvious missing. I think Enjolras said Éponine was actually coming today, so she’s probably going to bring her brother Gavroche. Which is why Combeferre is in the back right now turning off the security cameras, because Gavroche is about twelve years old.”

At the mention of their names, what appeared to be a crowd of people pretty much burst in the door, the great Enjolras himself at the front of the pack, followed by Courfeyrac’s dazzling smile, then a dark-haired girl with a curve or two more than Musichetta, dragging in tow with her a dirty-haired blond boy and a very teenaged redhead girl who bore little to no resemblance to the older one but a dash more to the boy (it was the skin, R reasoned, they had pale oval faces and crystal blue eyes, whereas the older girl had a round face with dark eyes, and she looked considerably more weathered than the other two. He'd love to sketch the three of them sometime, in charcoal, perhaps).

The Greek god’s eyes passed rather quickly over Grantaire, not withholding a few little daggers, before moving on to Marius, where they seemed to burn laser holes, and then he moved on once more, setting up his work station at the table with Marius. The girl led her apparent siblings to a separate table entirely, and sauntered up to Combeferre at the bar.

“Hey, ‘Ferre. Can I have just some cranberry juice for Gavroche, a Shirley for Azzie, and…I’ll take…I’ll have a Jack and Coke, fuck it, I’m not driving.” While she stood by for her drinks, the girl noticed R suddenly, and a dazzling smile with twice the voltage of Courfeyrac’s hit him square in the face. “Hello, there. Jehan, have you been making friends without little old me?”

“Name’s Grantaire, Miss,” he attempted to say suavely, taking her hand and placing a sloppy kiss on it. He was ready for the slap that usually accompanied his audacity, but it didn’t come this time, just her sweet, raucous laughter.

“Pleased to meet you, Grantaire. I’m Éponine. What brings you to the official meetings of the Friends of the Abased?”

“The what?”

“Les Amis de l’ABC,” Jehan piped in, sipping from his drink. “Enjolras was a Politics major, but he studied a lot of French philosophy in college. The Enlightenment, you know? He told us one time, it was when he read Voltaire and Rousseau that it all made sense, why he was here. He fell in love with French philosophy. That’s where he and Combeferre met, you know? Their freshman year of college, then they roomed together for the rest of college, then Combeferre moved to take care of his sister and Enjolras ended up living with Éponine because—”

“Oi, don’t tell my story for me, Prouvaire,” she cut in, elbowing him in the ribs, and turned to grin at Grantaire. “My parents are kind of assholes. So they mugged him one night, dragged me and my sister along, and my parents don’t have weapons, you know, they’re not actually dangerous, just crazy. So he calls them on their bluff, takes one look at me, and shakes his head. And he says, ‘I promise, I will help the ones like you.’ So obviously, I’m thinking, ‘asshole, I can take care of myself.’ But lo and behold, he’s holding a protest at the university the next week, so I head over, and he gets the shit beat out of him by one of the security officers. And because they don’t want him pressing charges, which he wouldn’t do because he’s too prideful to put matters in anyone else’s hands ever, the campus security sends him off to the infirmary. So I go there to look at him like I’m a fuckin’ genius and he’s lying on the bed with his head all busted up and I look down at him. And I say, ‘It doesn’t look like the ones like me need help.’ And he smiles up at me with this bitter little smile and he goes, ‘No, mademoiselle, it doesn’t appear so.’ And we’ve been friends ever since.”

“Heartwarming tale,” Grantaire chuckled, shaking his head at her. “And are you guys…?”

“No!” she protested, then started laughing as well. “No, no, we’re just friends. Enjolras doesn’t really date. I don’t think he’s been with a girl or guy at least since high school.”

“Girl or guy?"

“Well—”

“Ahem,” Enjolras interjected, standing at the front of the bar, glaring the rest of them down. Grantaire leaned back with a smirk and waved his hands out in front of him, as if pressing Enjolras to go on with his speech. Éponine took the drinks she’d ordered back to the table with her brother and sister, and even though they were just kids, they paid attention too. “As I’m sure most of you are aware, we’ve planned a protest for this week, and while time is tight and there are still many things to be sorted out, I’d hoped we’d be able to assign a few positions at this meeting and work out the timing for the event. Combeferre, do you have the list of duties?”

“Yes,” Combeferre answered, cleared his throat, and pushed his glasses up his nose. He drew from under the bar a crumpled sheet of paper with scribbled notes. “Enjolras will be speaking, obviously. Courfeyrac and I are going to oversee the petitions, but we need more people to get signatures. We were thinking Bahorel and Feuilly would head up security, and we’ll be able to recruit more if the protest gets any bigger than we’d expected. Right now we have Bossuet and Musichetta handing out information on our meetings. We need more people to pass out fliers, keep the crowd at a dull roar, and make sure that nobody unruly tries to get on the stage. Courfeyrac is sending out the signup sheet right now, and if you have something you wanted to do that's not on the list of options there, you can let us know.” Sure enough, a plain white sheet with slightly smudged printer ink and scrawled signatures reached Grantaire's hands:

Petitions Table:  
J. Courfeyrac  
Combeferre  
H. Joly  
Marius Pontmercy  
Cosette Fauchelevent  
Eponine T. (don't listen to Gavroche)

Security:  
Feuilly  
Bahorel (motherfuckers)  
Gavroche T. (yeah, motherfuckers!)

Fliers:  
Bossuet  
Musichetta  
Jean Prouvaire (Grantaire would like to note here that there were multiple flower doodles encircling the name)  
Azelma T.

He hesitated a long moment, letting Jehan slide the pen between his fingers when he forgot to take that, too, then scribbled his name under the security section, then scratched that out again and wrote it back. Somebody, he thought, would have to take care of the kid, right?

“Sure you're up for that?” Éponine whispered over his shoulder, a small smirk gracing her delicate face. “Enjolras gets people awfully riled up; I wouldn't want to be the one standing between him and a rubber bullet.”

“I'm sure there's nothing I can't handle,” replied Grantaire, waving a dismissive hand at her. Musichetta raised an eyebrow. Éponine laughed loudly.

“Then you've clearly never met my brother. Or Enjolras, for that matter.”

Grantaire held out a calloused hand, looking her defiantly in the face. He drew in a slow breath then swigged from his drink, never breaking contact, then spat out, “I reckon I'm up for a challenge.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay on this one, everyone. I'm having a really hard time keeping up through writer's block with this one, especially with other stuff that I want to start, but try to bear with me. I really do want to continue work on this one. Thanks for reading, if you're still here.


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